


forget all common sense

by agentaomine



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, basically a drabble
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-21
Updated: 2013-05-21
Packaged: 2017-12-12 12:26:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/811586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agentaomine/pseuds/agentaomine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s rational enough to realize that their relationship, if it can even be called that, is wrong. The problem lies in that it sure as hell doesn’t feel wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	forget all common sense

**Author's Note:**

> this is the first fic I've done for Teen Wolf so it might actually be terrible?? I'm really sorry if it is, oh god. it's probably ooc whoops. also, on tumblr, there was a thing that debated the possibility of a blind!Deucalion (which I thought was really cool and wow super badass that would be great) so I went with that so you can pretend if you don't agree with that, I guess? I only mention it maybe twice?  
> (how do you even tag this I'm not even sure)
> 
> edit: obv written before we actually knew he was blind  
> tumblr: chuck-hansens

It’s getting harder and harder to meet like this, he thinks as he moans into another one of Deucalion’s kisses.

He’s rational enough to realize that their relationship, if it can even be _called_ that, is wrong. The problem lies in that it sure as hell doesn’t _feel_ wrong. He thinks Derek might be getting suspicious which is bad, very bad, but it was very hard to even think of Derek’s name when Deucalion drags his teeth (with just a hint of fang, _god, that’s hot_ ) across his bottom lip.

He knows he needs to break it off, and he frequently starts a text that he never finishes, discards it into drafts that he knows he’ll never send. He’d like to blame it on Stockholm syndrome, maybe, as he is, in a way, being held hostage. It would be a lie and everyone would know, though, so there goes that.

So he decides _fuck it,_ and pushes Deucalion down onto the bed. It would be so easy for him to resist, but he doesn’t, not now. Their relationship is built on challenge, something he appreciates, _needs_ , even. He gets respect. He isn’t told _sit back, let the wolves do the work._ It’s what makes this- _them_ \- work.

There’s something reverent in those unseeing eyes as he rocks his hips against the alpha’s. That hint of red there’d been just a little while earlier was now full-blown crimson. Deucalion licks his lips and reaches out, pulling Stiles’s head down and kisses him, all teeth and tongue and delightfully _filthy_ and it made his toes curl.

Suddenly he’s on his back and he’s being opened up by long, lube-slicked ( _when did that happen?_ ) fingers. He’s embarrassed by the sounds he’s making and is tempted to bite his lip to try to stop the noises, but Deucalion looks up at that moment like he knows just what he’s thinking, so he doesn’t. He clenches and rocks back onto those fingers, whimpering _moremoremore, Deucalion, come on!_

The werewolf’s lips twist into a smirk at his pleads but abides by his wishes, slicking up his cock and _oh, yes, thank the Lord, that’s fuckin’ perfect._ He hears Deucalion chuckle (sometimes Stiles just wants to record that sound because _hot damn_ ) and manages to muster up a half-hearted glare, despite knowing it won’t do any good.

Finally, _finally_ , he starts to thrust, easily hitting his prostate after the however-many-times they’ve done this, and _this_ , he thinks, this feeling of fullness, is one of the best things he’s experienced in his life. He’s unabashedly loud, now, too consumed by pleasure to _care_ that he probably sounds like a wanton whore.

It never lasts long enough, not really. Stiles comes with a shout of Deucalion’s name, and the alpha follows soon after, spilling into him with a growl and wow, that _really_ shouldn’t be that hot. He bites down on the junction between Stiles’s neck and shoulder, and he knows Deucalion isn’t turning him. They’d agreed on that, that it wasn’t his place to and that (while everyone insists that he’s lying) he didn’t _want_ to be a werewolf. He’s laying claim, Stiles knows, as Deucalion laps at the mark he left, as though to soothe the already bruising skin.

It’s a dangerous game that he plays, allowing this to go on so long and so _far_ , but he doesn’t _always_ have to listen to the voice of reason, he thinks as his eyes droop. Deucalion murmurs something, maybe, something like _really, Stiles?_ and _Didn’t you say you had to be home tonight?_

He bats at the man’s hand on his shoulder, muttering, _let me have this moment, dammit, I’m fuckin’ tired._

The last thing he hears is something like _thirty minutes_ before he passes out.


End file.
